Camp and Trail eBook

Under Herb’s guidance that march was made with
singularly few hardships. He managed to hire
a “jumper” from a new settler who had a
farm a couple of miles from their camp. This
contrivance was a rough sort of sled, formed of two
stout ash saplings, and hitched to a courageous horse.
The “jumper’s” one merit was that
it could travel along many a rough trail where wheels
would be splintered at the outset. But since,
as Herb said, it went at “a succession of dead
jumps,” no camper was willing to trust his bones
to its tender mercies. However, it answered admirably
for carrying the tent, knapsacks, and trophies of
the party, tightly strapped in place, including Neal’s
bear-skin, which was duly called for, and the moose-antlers,
more precious in Dol’s sight than if they had
been made of beaten gold.

Thus the campers journeyed homeward with their backs
as light as their spirits, caring little for the chills
of a couple of nights spent under canvas and rubber
coverings.

Two gala evenings they had,—­one with Uncle
Eb in his bark hut near Squaw Pond, where they were
regaled with a sumptuous supper, for “coons
war in eatin’ order now;” and the second
with Doctor Phil Buck at his little frame house near
Moosehead Lake.

Dear old Doc was as ever a power,—­a power
to welcome, uplift, entertain.

The campers sought him immediately on their arrival
at Greenville; and he stood by them while Cyrus made
a full statement before the local coroner about the
death and burial of the half-breed, Chris Kemp, the
Farrars and Herb confirming what was said with due
dignity.

But dignity was blown to the four winds by the very
unprofessional and very woodsman-like cheer that Doc
raised, and that was echoed thunderously by Joe Flint
and a few other guides and loungers who had collected
to hear the story, when Cyrus described the splendid
rush which Herb made, with the dying man in his arms,
and the clay of the landslide half smothering him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t near to try
and do something for the poor fellow,” said
the doctor, later on, when his friends were gathered
round a blazing wood-fire in his own snug house.
“But I doubt if I could have helped him.
I guess he was born with the hankering for whiskey,
and when that is in the mongrel blood of a half-breed
it is pretty sure to wreck him some time. We
must leave him to God, boys, and to changes larger
than we know.”

“I’ve a letter for you, Neal,” added
the host presently in a lighter tone. “It
was directed to my care. It is from Philadelphia,
from Royal Sinclair, I think.”

Neal slit the envelope which was handed to him, and
read the few lines it contained aloud, with a longing
burst of laughter.

Royal was as short with his pen as he was dash-away
with his tongue. The letter was a brief but pressing
invitation to Cyrus and the Farrars to visit their
camping acquaintances of the Maine wilds at the Sinclairs’
home in Philadelphia before the English boys recrossed
the Atlantic.